In Between and After
by moonlitjune
Summary: "In between" events from the movie, and an imagining of after. Told from both V and Evey 's perspective. V/Evey. V lives. Rated for later chapters. Movieverse. After over a year, it's finally COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. Alan Moore would most certainly want nothing to do with this, seeing as how he wanted nothing to do with the movie. ;) Warner Brothers owns everything.

Rating is for chapters to come, hopefully.

* * *

"**In Between and After."**

Chapter 1.

* * *

Evey was restless.

In the weeks since coming to the shadow gallery, she had tried to keep herself busy. She found her biggest distraction in books, because lord knew she couldn't avoid them. Her room sometimes felt dangerous, there were so many books in precariously tall piles. And more kept coming in; V was forever bringing new additions to his collection.

She had spent hours in the gallery, looking at the things he had "reclaimed." Life above had been so colorless, so devoid of anything visually stunning, that living here was a shock to her senses. Sometimes she would be struck when walking by a work of art so forcefully, that it took her breath away. She would stop, turn and face it, and simply look.

Why would anyone call this "objectionable?" That was where he had found most of it, in the "Ministry for Objectionable Materials." Was it the beauty or the creativity? Was it the passion that lay within the brushstrokes? The government had tried so hard to turn England in to a land of passionless automatons, mindlessly living lives in fear of anything and everything.

Evey shook her head. Living with V had solidified a lot of ideas she had had lurking in her brain. She had always had a problem with the way the world was, but his articulate nature had made everything crystal clear. The government had sucked the art, the beauty, out of life in London. The gallery was a testament to that. It's objects imbued the walls with life and intensity, and she drank it in like she had been parched.

Still, she was restless. There was no way around the fact she was a prisoner. V may like to play host and make her as comfortable, or spoiled, as possible, but that didn't change anything. She could not leave. There were so many locked doors, so much secrecy. Evey's blood boiled if she thought about it too hard, an element of claustrophobia she didn't know she had. Trapped.

The books were not enough. She loved to escape in them, but it was a temporary reprieve from her reality. The art fed her soul, but could not fully heal the black hole that was her imprisonment. Movies, music, food, it was all here. She had everything she should need, and yet lacked the most important thing of all, air. It was starting to make her twitchy.

She turned, took a deep breath, and hardened her resolve. Her feet carried her to the muffled sounds she knew to be V training. She paused at the threshold, looking at the man who, whether she liked it or not, had become the center of her universe. He was her jailor, her provider, her link to the outside world, and her friend all rolled in to one.

Evey hesitated at that last thought, "Friend?" There was no denying the fact he was a nice man. Evey chucked inwardly, "Friend? Nice?" These were terrible words to describe him. He was intelligent, well spoken, courteous, challenging, and occasionally fun. She enjoyed his company. And yet, the image before her now drove something else home. He was a killer. This was as inescapable as the fact that he was her captor, her jailor, and he held her life in his hands. Hands that had held many lives in them, and he had crushed them. She had never known anyone to be so ruthless, so unyielding.

She believed in his sense of honor. He believed he was righting wrongs, this murderer. But that's what made her pause the most, his actions were always veiled in doing what was right. But killing? Keeping her here? She was at his mercy, and he had already shown himself to be relentless. He would do what he thought was right, and damn anyone else's sensibilities. Damn her freedom, all for his revolution.

And yet he had saved her, twice. She owed him so much, because without him, she knew she would be nursing the emotional and physical wounds of rape. She didn't know if she could have survived, had he not found her there, screaming for help.

And this was the crux of it all, this bipolar feeling. She didn't know how to feel about him. She wavered between resentment and gratefulness, affection and anger. It made her feel powerless and out of control. And add on top of it the feeling of being trapped, and Evey was desperate to take action. To do something to alleviate this helplessness.

Which led her to standing on the threshold of V's training room, clearing her throat until she saw his head tilt in her direction, and she took a bold step forward.

"Yes, Evey?" his velvet voice said.

"V," she paused, "I want you to teach me to fight."

* * *

V took a breath, slowly removed the knife from the dummy it was impaled upon, stowed it away, and looked at the small woman in his room. She looked so frail, so breakable with her small frame and angular features. Her curls framed her face, making her look more innocent and doll-like. He was struck forcefully with his first memory of her, surrounded my leering men unzipping their pants, terror on her face and she screamed for help. He shivered. He had killed them all, and gladly. They didn't deserve to touch her.

And then his second memory, the anger in her eyes as she defended him, spraying that detective with mace. She was no doll, no painted porcelain figure to be displayed and kept. He knew there was in intensity lurking behind her docile manner. He had been expecting something like this.

"I can not make you a warrior Evey, I can not make you invincible. What do you hope to achieve with this?"

For a second, she showed that intensity. Her eyes flashed. "I am not a fool. I do not expect invincibility." Her tone softened, and she looked contrite, "I merely want a chance. If I face something like those men again V, I want a chance."

True, still he knew that he could not give her what she wanted too easy, she needed to learn first. "There were six of them, Evey. You were powerless. What do you hope to achieve with this?"

She frowned, and looked inward for a second. "I hope to gain some of myself back. I am truly powerless, I was then, and I am now. I have nothing V, except my life. I'm tired of being afraid."

Her words sparked something in him, and behind the mask, he stilled. There was a high price to pay to loose your fear, and he knew she did not realize the cost. Not truly. He could teach her a little about fighting, and it would make a difference. She would feel braver; feel more self-possessed when she entered the world again. Until she found herself outnumbered again, in a situation with no hope, and all the self-defense he taught her would matter very little. It would be nothing, if she panicked, if she feared.

He didn't know what else to do though. He could only try and show her how to behave without fear. It would be better than trying to break her. He wasn't that ruthless. Was he?

Outwardly, he nodded, acknowledging her statement. "Okay Evey. if that is what you wish, I will do my best."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

* * *

Another week passed, or more, sometimes Evey couldn't tell. What did time matter when your world had no sun? She sat, slumped and sweaty from exercise. V had her building her endurance. It left her feeling limp and noodle-like, if limp noodles could feel sore all over.

She sighed. V was impressive. She had known it, at least in theory. They way he held himself, the muscles beneath the ever-present black, were testament to a man who knew no limits. She was working hard with every bit of herself she had, and he didn't even breathe heavily.

She liked him. There was no way she could convince herself otherwise. This self-enforced regime was putting her in to contact with him more than ever. He was patient, but strong. He stopped when she asked, and she tried not to ask unless she was desperate. And there was an element to him that she had not expected, that she had glimpsed briefly when she found him watching "the Count of Monte Cristo" and fighting with his suit of armor. He was kind of silly. He never lacked poise, so she had a hard time labeling it, but he liked to play. She found herself laughing with him during their sparring sessions. Mostly over his antics with the dummy, which he had named Victor. Whenever he wanted to demonstrate a technique where she could see it without hindrance, out would come Victor, and she would smile. She hoped V was smiling too.

Evey frowned at that thought. He seemed so easy to read sometimes, go genuine, all without a single facial expression. His voice was the thing she liked best about him, deep but expressive and articulate. Still, there were moments where he would stop talking and remain still, and he became utterly unreadable. He may as well have been a statue, for all the she could read in him. She wondered what went on in his head at those moments, what caused him to pause. There was no face to read, no eyes to gain clues from, just the falsely smiling façade of Fawkes. She felt like that damn mask was mocking her at times, or maybe him. She didn't know which idea was worse.

A noise interrupted her thoughts. It had been hours since she had last seen V, she thought he had gone above. She flexed her muscles, testing them to see how sore she truly was, and then got to her feet. She walked toward the door that lead to the gallery, but had gotten no more than a few steps when he appeared.

She looked at him sharply. There was something off, something wrong. His shoulders were tensed beneath his sweeping cloak, tight, as if he held them up. One arm reached up and clenched his left shoulder. His movements when he turned to look at her were sharp, fast, and his breath hissed through the mask. "V?" She took a step forward.

He turned away from her, moving to a door at the far side of the room, saying "No, Evey." His voice was like gravel, it grated out of him. "Not now. Leave me be."

* * *

Damn, damn, damn! Why did she have to be in here? He knew the answer of course, he should have expected it, because he had given her things to practice. Pain had clouded his mind, now that the adrenaline of the fight had worn off, and he had forgotten she would probably be in here. No matter, it didn't change anything, he still had to deal with this.

He opened the door leading to his "infirmary." It had never been locked to her, so he suspected she knew what it was, but she had never seen him enter it. He had never needed to while she had been here.

It was a well stocked room, clean and filled with shelves stuffed with anything he could foresee using medically. He had already ripped his clothes away from the wound, beneath the cloak his shoulder peaking through the black like a mottled red mess. He had not stopped gripping the bullet hole since he had dispatched the man who had created it, a Fingerman now cooling in the gutter. He knew he had to stop the bleeding, but he needed to get the bullet out.

Grabbing supplies and flinging them at the exam table in the room, he stumbled over and sank into a stool in front of it. First, the anesthetic. He knew he could handle the pain, he had endured much worse for sure, but didn't really fancy finding out for sure. The last thing he needed to do was pass out over a silly bullet wound with Evey around.

V mentally kicked himself. A bullet wound! The first he had taken in years. He felt clumsy and awkward, ashamed at having slipped enough to get hurt. He knew what had done it though. The Fingerman he had encountered made him think of HER. Was this one like the others? Was he just as much or a monster? Did he abuse the power he shouldn't even have in the first place? Then the man had drawn a gun, and V had reacted with emotion. He had always been cool before, his hatred had calmed over the years to simply become a driving force, a lurking drive to keep him going. It had long since stopped ruling him. Until tonight, when his "advanced kinesthesia and reflexes" had done him no good when coupled with irrational anger.

Using his free hand, not releasing pressure from the wound, he worked the needle into the flesh surrounding the area, injecting it a few different places. He didn't have long before it bled out of his system. He grabbed the long nosed surgical pliers, not relishing the next part.

A figure stepped in front of him and took them out of his hand. "Allow me," she said softly.

He looked up into her face. She couldn't see his, but there was no doubt that she read the incredulity in his body language. All he could say was a strangled, "What?"

Her look pierced through the mask's eye screens, "I had a hard time holding down a job. I worked as a nurse's aide in an emergency room for a bit, until they found out I had lied about my education." While she said this she had pulled another stool up in front of him, sitting with his knee between her legs so she could move close to his shoulder.

Very close. V hadn't been this close to someone who wasn't unconscious or attacking him in a long time. She smelled of gardenia.

She had put on gloves and was now gingerly removing his hand from the wound. He let her, and they both looked as the blood flowed slowly down to seep into his ripped clothing. It had slowed.

She frowned, leaned in and lifted the pliers. He closed his eyes and decided to take her word at having experience. He felt the metal enter his body despite the medication, and tried to ignore it. He focused on her smell, breathing deeply, and let it distract him. He had stolen that lotion from one of the supply trains, thinking of her. Now that he was paying attention, he could also detect the smell of her exertions, sweat drying on her brow. It did not detract from her scent; it mixed with the gardenia well, making it richer and more… intoxicating.

She exhaled in front of him, and he opened his eyes to see a note of triumph on her face and she removed the bullet. Setting it down, she cleaned the wound with a practiced hand. Then she reached for the bandages. He grabbed her wrist. Shocked eyes met the mask, and he sighed. "Cauterize it."

He saw her eyes glance to his shoulder, where he was again applying pressure. Around the leather of his gloves he knew she could see the skin, distorted and patchy from his burns, and saw understanding pass in her eyes. Yes, he would rather seal the wound and scar, than nurse an open bullet hole for as long as it healed. She moved quickly, he doubted she had ever done this before, but he guided her to the right tools, and she worked without hesitation. Finally, she added ointment to the burned flesh and added a bandage.

When she let out a deep breath and looked at her handiwork, he stretched his shoulders. The pain was considerable, but manageable.

"And why did you decide to lie and work in an emergency room?" his voice sounded calm.

"I needed the money. It was one of many jobs after I left the JRP." V was shocked, she had been a part of the Juvenile Reclamation Project? "It was a small, poor clinic and they needed someone desperately, and I was willing to work for little money. They didn't question me too hard, until it was unavoidable. After that, I was placed in a few more jobs until the BTN. I had learned to keep my head down at that point, and liked my coworkers, so I was a model employee. I had been there 2 years." She had a slight frown to her eyes, as if remembering that she had lost that job too.

V tried to change the subject. "How are you feeling?"

She started, "I should be asking you that question. Are you feeling okay?" He mentally assessed how he felt, weak, but he didn't think he needed to replace the blood he had lost.

"I'm okay. Really. If I needed it, I have a supply of my blood in that refrigerator." He gestured, and she saw the small fridge in the corner. "At this point, some food and then rest would be welcome."

He looked at her and said, "Thank you, by the way. It is very difficult to remove bullets alone. You were remarkable."

He was rewarded with her smile. "You're welcome."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

V had recovered quickly, barely showing any sign of having been shot. Whenever she asked him about it, he made a graceful non-committal gesture, and quickly changed the subject.

She had backed off a bit on her training, expecting that he needed a break because of his shoulder. It wasn't too long before he was asking her if she wanted to resume. She did, and had picked up the pace a bit again, but couldn't help feeling awkward about it with his injury. He assured her he was fine, but it made her uncomfortable. So she mostly worked on her own.

They spent most of their time together in the kitchen now. V had ambushed a very well stocked supply house, and there was so much fresh food, Evey was afraid it would go bad. They were both doing the best they could, cooking whatever recipes they thought sounded interesting. V had a whole shelf in the kitchen dedicated to cook books, and they often found themselves around the kitchen table, exclaiming over new recipes and sharing what they liked. When they found one they had all the ingredients for, off they went, cooking for hours.

She had been drooling over a recipe for stuffed mushrooms, when V had unexpectedly said, "I hate mushrooms."

She glanced at him. "You? That's a surprise."

He cocked his head, and his voice sounded puzzled, "Why?"

"Mushrooms are so… cultured. They seem gourmet, high-class. I wouldn't expect you to dislike anything like that."

He made a noise that might have been a laugh, but wasn't. "It's the texture. I can't stand shrimp either."

"Ah, so you're a textural eater." She shook her head, bemused. She hadn't even seen him eat. He would stay with her while she dined, and then she suspected he ate later, somewhere else.

"I'm a textural person in general. The gloves mask a lot, so when I do touch, I enjoy it. I guess that translates in to my food."

Evey was still, digesting this information. It took all of her willpower at that point not to approach him and take off his gloves, maybe entwine her fingers in his. She knew his hands would feel interesting. It didn't intimidate her. She could picture his reaction, if he would even let her get that far. He would flinch away from her touch. She suspected he was deeply insecure about his skin. She could understand it, if not condone it. So she said, "Why not take them off here, V, at least while cooking? I have seen your hands, you should not fear my reaction."

He turned away from the stove, looked at her, and was silent for a minute. She casually continued looking through the cookbook, trying not to put him on the spot. The silence grew till she looked up and said, "Never mind. I can see you would prefer not to with me around."

His voice purred in hum, expressing nothing specific. It seemed dismissive, like he was disagreeing with her last statement, but she knew it was the truth. Still, she glanced up at him, pausing at the sound of his voice.

"I don't know." He said softly. "I would hate to make you noxious."

"V." He voice was firm, deeply enunciating the syllable, showing force. She looked up at him and retreated in to her softer self, "Don't be silly. That is not possible."

His hips had been resting on the edge of the stove, but he pushed his body forward, and took a strong stance, legs shoulder width apart. His hands came up together at his waist, and she could see him grip the tip of one gloved finger with the other hand. Evey was surprised to find that her pulse had quicked.

He tugged on that one finger. She tried not to look at his hands, she stared at his mask, wanting to meet his eyes but finding only blackness. He tugged on the next finger, and the next. 'Don't stop…' she thought to herself.

As he slid the glove off his hand, she knew exactly how she wanted to react. She glanced once, quickly, and then pointedly looked back at his face, and smiled. It was genuine, if planned, and she hoped he saw that she meant it. "Good." Was all she said, and she looked back down at her cookbook. She never stopped smiling. V went back to cooking, gloveless.

* * *

V's heart was pounding in his chest. And then she smiled at him, a true smile that lit her eyes.

He found himself, inexplicably, scared. He had been nervous taking off the glove, sure, but scared? It was her smile, her casual acceptance of his grotesque hands. He remembered, before the fear, there had been a moment when relief washed through him. It had burned though him, like that fire that had burned around him, and one of his favorite quotes surfaced in his mind.

'My barn having burned to the ground, I can now see the moon.'

He had always likened it to his tragedy, and the clarity of his revenge. But he could now see a different meaning for that quote, and it scared him. In this moment he had burned, and now all he could see was her acceptance, where he had never expected to see any.

No, no, no. He hardened himself, taking off the other glove, trying not to care. With a forced casualness, he turned back to cooking.

* * *

_"My barn having burned to the ground, I can now see the moon."— Japanese poet Masahide_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

There was something in Evey that believed in right and wrong. She had seen so many injustices, so much pain caused by abuse of power. Things in her world were fairly black and white, straightforward. The government was generally bad. It had crossed too many lines. But more than that, the strongest impulse in her was to preserve her life. The save herself in any way she knew how.

Her father had refused to leave the country, when all this crap had started. When she heard him say to her mother, "If we leave, they win." Her 6-year-old self had barely understood. At 15, when she lay surrounded by other children, yet more alone than ever, she had gotten angry with him. Win? Was this winning? She was in "The Project" meant to reform children in to obedient drones for Mother England. Her whole family was dead, she was living a life barely worth living, and he called this "not letting them win?"

She swore to never let them take her life. She was the last of her family, and she would keep on living.

V was anything but black and white. He lived and thrived in the "gray area" of right and wrong. She enjoyed him, her spine tingled at the sound of his voice and every day she looked forward to their time in the kitchen when he would relax, take off his gloves and they could forget the drama of the world.

Then he would leave. They couldn't stay in the kitchen forever. He would disappear and do whatever masked vigilantes did, and it drove her do distraction. Was he killing someone right now? How was he going to blow up parliament? Was he out getting himself wounded again? She didn't want to care about his well-being, but she did, and she resented herself a little for caring about a killer. She was afraid of caring about him, it was an emotion that could only lead to pain. He cared for nothing but his revolution.

Sitting on her bed, she fingered a piece of paper. It was Gordon's address.

She couldn't believe she was thinking about this, betraying him, looking for a way out. But Evey was done being a prisoner. Her self-preservation instincts were in over drive, and she just wanted to flee. She wanted to run away from all of this, like she had seemingly wanted to run away from everything since her parents had been taken. Her life was one barely livable situation after the other, and this was no exception. She always adapted, learned to look for the pleasures she could find. There were a great many pleasures here with him. Soft lighting, sweet music, all the books she could ever want, and a man she found so interesting he drew her like a moth to flame.

That fame would consume her life and leave her as another victim of this damned country.

Hell no.

She stood up, and went to tell him her story. To offer him help.

She kept Gordon's address close.

* * *

V had been thinking. He had been tending to his roses, in a locked room that Evey couldn't get to. His mask and gloves were off, not because he wanted to be uncovered, but because then he could feel the rose petals in is hands, and smell their fragrance without the mask blocking it.

Evey wanted to help. She had said so. He should ask her. He needed a girl, and she could fill that role. She had wanted to be an actress.

V flinched, the last thing he wanted to do was put Evey in a room with that pervert. Lilliman. Thinking about it, he had come to the conclusion that he HAD TO. He had to stop him, had to kill him. Putting Evey in this situation would remove a little girl from it, and would give him an in to end this bastard's life. He had to. The man was moving parishes, moving up in the church, this was his last chance.

She had volunteered. He kept telling himself that. She had offered to help. She wasn't an innocent, she was an adult woman. He should ask.

So he went to her, found her cleaning his favorite mirror, and asked.

And she said yes.

He was so worried, but still so very.... proud of her.

* * *

_Another freakishly short chapter, but the next promises to be longer, because it will deal with Evey's betrayal._

_I was realizing that I have no plot, felt guilty about it, and than realized I don't need one. There is a plot, it's the plot of the movie. I'm just filling in the emotional gaps, because I want to. And then, of course, will come the end. ;)  
_

_I'm afraid I haven't developed V enough. What do you think?_

_And THANK YOU for those of you who have commented and added this to your alerts. I'm so thrilled._


	5. Chapter 5

V, truthfully, was almost incoherent. His emotions, brain and heart roiled and churned until he had no sense of self.

He was absent from his body, he simply existed, and went through the motions.

His body was fleeing the scene. He had killed Lilliman. Normally, that would have given him a moment of self-righteous satisfaction. When he took the life of those who so richly deserved it, namely those involved at Larkhill, it cemented his purpose and gave him a moments peace.

That was not the case now.

Bitch!

And that thought stopped him, shook him, and made him aware of himself. He was on a roof close to home, with no memory of how he had gotten there.

He felt the sharp stab of it, the pain again as he remembered her. The fear and shame was written plainly on her face. She looked at him and said, "I'm sorry, I had to!" And ran.

He had called her name. The word rolled off his tongue, holding the sound of his questioning, his disbelief, and his anger.

"Evey!"

He had killed Lilliman with anger in his heart, vengeance pounding in his veins. His blood pumped furiously as he dissolved in to his emotions.

He wanted to hate her, like he had hated so much in this world. He wanted to find her, shake her, scream, call her bitch and whore and see the pain in her eyes as he betrayed her with his words as she had betrayed him with her actions. Had she been able to see behind his mask, she would have seen that betrayal mirrored in his eyes.

And his body began to move.

He lived behind his eyes, not looking, awash in the sea that was his thoughts. She had run, from him. Evey. The only person he had known well in…forever. For as far back as Larkhill.

He felt noxious.

Why? He felt that question in his marrow, it was so deep. He had been completely blind-sided. Never, ever would he have expected this. She was Evey, she had defended him against the detective, she had asked to learn to fight, watched countless movies on the couch with him, she had healed him, and she had talked to him.

He had talked to so few. He had contacts, people he saw in his more natural disguises. Casual conversations. And then there was the verbal jesting he engaged his victims in. Unfulfilling, they never responded with any intelligence.

He had danced around this new addition to his life like a skittish animal. Evey was a wildcard, she was a distraction from his purpose, and he had struggled to remain focused.

Still, she had been unavoidable. And then, he had not wanted to avoid her. He was proud of the shadow galley, true, but she had brought life to his home and she didn't even know it. They had talked for hours about the beauty that lay within, the art, the books. Evey had admired it all, remaking upon it's passion and life. She didn't know that so much of it had come with her. She was a presence, and she brought with her an intensity.

How could he go back there? Those walls would fell oppressive, lifeless, and empty. He would think of her in every glance, in every alcove and room, in every book and painting, she would be there. The silence would haunt him. He wanted to hate her, but he couldn't. He cared for her, he wanted her safe.

Why? Damnit, why? Was life with him really so terrible, that she would risk capture and torture? Lilliman had hinted that she had told him things, warned him about V's plans. Did she honestly think that she could buy her freedom so easily? They would have tortured and killed her no matter what information she offered. She wasn't that foolish.

He could only think of one reason, and he instinctually knew it was the right one. Fear. She feared him, she feared the Fingermen and their black bags, and she feared death.

Fear.

His emotions stilled a little, the sharp edge of betrayal softened a bit. He knew. He could understand fear, if not condone it. He could control fear.

He knew how to loose fear.

As he found himself back in his body, skulking across rooftops. He was nowhere near the shadow gallery. He had turned around, and was now closer to where he began. He was a few blocks from the church.

He started hunting.

* * *

Evey ran.

She felt the cool London air on her legs and arms. She was running for her life, and she was doing it looking like a damn doll. She knew she stood out; there was no way to move through the streets stealthily.

She looked around, felling the ringlets on the side of her head brush her face. Everything was a reminder of what she had done. The stupid socks, the ridiculous skirt, these damned pigtails. Every time her fingers grazed across the skirt, or she stumbled in the girly shoes, or felt the air on her bare thighs, she saw his face. That unmoving, striking smile and those deep black eyes.

She heard him say her name as she turned from him and bolted through the door. So much had been said in those two syllables.

Still, she ran, and she ran with all her heart. Fear clutched her as she navigated the streets, felling unsure as to her direction in her panic. She had hoped on Lilliman taking the bait, as much as it shamed her. She would be safe had he listened. She wouldn't be dashing through London, with both the Finger and V looking for her. She was doubly in danger, and it sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. She knew she was terrified.

But she was in control. She was no one's prisoner at this moment and that kept her feet moving.

* * *

V found her as she knocked on Gordon Dietrich's door. She glanced back at the street, and the fear in her eyes shocked him, even though he expected it. She was so afraid.

That fear masked the strong woman he knew she was, that she could be. It made her weak. She had run from him, not because she didn't agree with him, but because she feared. She would sacrifice her beliefs in right and wrong to survive.

He could not live with that. She was better than that.

He could give her a life without a fear of death. He could show her what truly mattered.

He felt raw, like his emotions had scoured him. At the frayed edges of his thoughts he was disgusted at the thought of breaking her. He would have to do things…

But he was not important. V was a symbol, and the symbol could do this. V was unyielding and determined to change this world. The fear of the masses had robbed everyone of their freedom, and he would set Evey free.

He would save her.

* * *

So sorry it's been so long, there is a lot going on in reality. ;) I am grateful to those of you who have commented, alerted, or who added this to their favorites.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6.

* * *

He was running. He was not dressed as V, but was clothed in an institutional jumpsuit, medical gloves, and one of his prosthetic masks. V's feet pounded down the hall as he fled. He quickly turned in to a room that was a dark, forbidding bathroom. The walls were solid concrete, as was the floor. It had no mirror, just a stainless steel sink and toilet. It was lit by a solitary light bulb in the ceiling, barely casting enough light to lift the darkness.

V retched in to the toilet violently. He whole body shook with it, tremors running through his muscled frame, and his breathing was choked and labored as he gasped for breath between the heaving in his stomach.

His eyes were open; he stared at the wall, unwilling to close them. Still, he couldn't shake the memory. He felt his hands close around her arms, jerking her hard enough to bruise. His hands easily fit around her bicep. She was so small. He felt her hair in his hand as he forced her to sitting, his other hand around her neck, controlling her body. The vibration of the clipper as he took her hair still made his hands shake.

And the worst. V dry-heaved in to the toilet thinking of it again, his stomach long since emptied. Her clothes falling to the floor as he cut and ripped them off. Her hands in his as he bound them above her head in the shower. Her cries still rang in his ears as he turned the hose on her.

The absolutely terrified and lost look in her eyes as she turned to him as he slammed the cell door in her face.

V slumped down next to the toilet, body spent, mind reeling. V swam in the shame of it, the utter revulsion he felt toward himself. He wished he had never thought of her naked. It would relieve some of this self-hatred.

His thoughts had never really involved himself, per-se. Mostly his hands, if he was involved at all. He shied away from any other thought of himself involved with her. It was her grace that made him do it, the slender neck, the curve of her hips, and little bits of glimpses of skin that came with living in such close quarters. She was this beautiful creature in his world, and he had adored the form of her.

The moments when he paused, when he stood completely still in her presence because she had taken his breath away, he thought of the way she might feel. He had never touched his skin to her own, and he wondered at the smoothness of her. He imagined the feel of her back as his hand slid up to her neck, burying his fingers in the curls.

V groaned, wishing he could vomit some more. How disgusting could he be? His thoughts of her then were a mockery of their current situation. Her curls? He had removed that to remove her identity, to rape her of something small, to break her a little. Her naked form? He closed his eyes and wished will all his being to remove that sight from his brain. He had started the slow torture of trying to destroy her courage, and trembled under the weight of his nausea and loathing.

He closed his eyes, knowing it would only get worse. She would always hate him for this, and he would always hate himself.

He knew that there was only one way he was going to get through this. His detached self, the part that stood for justice and revenge, would try to break her. He would continue as "V," bent on changing the world, and would try and change her to turn her in to a better version of herself. Through duress, through torture, through the lowest and most vile experience he could create. He would make her stronger.

V lay fully down on the floor, his back protesting against the hard surface. He saw the light above him, and when he closed his eyes, that burning dot of light was still there in the darkness. His chest burned, his whole body ached, and he wondered if this was what his heart breaking felt like, or if this was his body's way of punishing him for being so disgusting. His breathing was shallow, trying not to move too much through the pain.

He wondered how she was coping, alone in that cell. He would love to run back down that hallway, dressed as V, take her in his arms and "save" her. But that would make his actions worth nothing. He would truly be a coward, and the pain he had put her though would be useless. He couldn't do that. So he would continue.

The pain in his chest increased as he realized that she would never forgive him. He didn't blame her.

* * *

Evey focused on the one point of light in the room, the slit beneath the door. She was so cold, hurt so much, was so terrified it was blinding, so she was curled up in the corner of the cell. She had stopped crying a few hours ago, and had slipped in to a kind of numb meditation, looking at that slit of light.

Evey didn't know why, but the only source of comfort she felt was the thought of V. She wrapped the idea of him around her heart, and felt stronger. She shivered in the cell, but if she thought of his voice, if she pictured his mask, she could almost feel his cloak settle over her, protecting and warm.

Part of her hoped he would save her, but part of her was afraid of that hope. She was here, she had left V, and she could have no expectations of him. So she simply thought of his strength, his determination, and his condemnation of all that would imprison her, and slept. In her dreams, she told him she was sorry and that she missed him, and in her dreams he smiled his frozen smile and freed her.


	7. Chapter 7

_Mid point warning: I own nothing, claim noting, want nothing, and earn nothing besides your fingers typing a review. ;)_

* * *

Chapter 7.

Evey felt the droplets of rain on her bare head as she moved through the streets of London. The droplets on her scalp, running down her neck made her think of the last time she had felt rain like this, on a rooftop. She tried not to think of V, and most of the time she succeeded. He was a wound in her that had only just begun to scab. She could feel it, the size of the wound; it's rawness and pain. It was less than it had been, she was trying to move beyond and heal, but it was slow going.

She remembered the last time she saw him. She was so confused; she said and did things she didn't understand at the time. Calling him a monster, she meant it, and yet she didn't. It wasn't the whole truth. As she walked past Fingermen in the streets, who looked at her and didn't recognize the woman who's face was in the papers or on the news, she understood a little. More importantly, as she walked past those same Fingermen and didn't quiver, didn't fear their brutality and rape, just looked them in the eye and kept walking, she understood a little more.

That still didn't make the wound heal.

And she remembered, after calling him a monster, after saying she should thank him with a slight amount of sarcasm in her voice, she found herself making a gesture. She didn't remember doing it consciously. It was as if the affection she had felt for him, before the wound had carved its way through her chest, managed to surface. She remembered clinging to the thought of him alone in that damned cell, and the warmth the thought of him had given her. She looked him in the eye, took a step forward, and paused, her face close to his. In that moment, she wanted to do it. To gently press her lips to that mask, feel the enamel against her, and connect with the man. And then the moment passed, before it had even really begun. She felt the wound, the knowledge that she would not really be connecting with the man, but with the symbol that was that mask. The symbol that had tried to break her, the symbol that had changed her, the symbol that was a revolution. V the man was locked away behind that façade, and she could not touch him.

So she stepped back, thanked him with a degree of sincerity, for what specifically she didn't know. And after agreeing to see him one more time, she left.

And she lived. She had a little bit of money from V, she found a tiny flat, found a meaningless job, and she got by. As the days and weeks passed, and she walked the streets a free woman, in every sense of the word, she found the pain in her chest had lessened. Summer passed by quickly, and she reveled in the rain of fall. She found a roof with a view she liked, and she let the rain fall. She felt it run down behind her ears, around her nose and between her eyes, and tasted it at the crease of her mouth. She felt it run paths through her incredibly short hair, and felt it all settle at her neck where it soaked into her already soaking clothing. She looked out, and instead of the wound, she felt her freedom. She felt the shape of it, the size and scale, and realized it was bigger than herself, her freedom. She felt the rain mingle with a tear of her own, and in that moment, she forgave.

* * *

V simply let the dominos fall.

And as he watched them fall, he thought of her. He forgot his revenge, and was thankful he had done all of this, if it gave her a future.

And as the dominos stopped falling, and he found that one solitary tile standing tall, supported by the others, he thought of how he saw the whole meaning of the world in her eyes, and wanted to give her everything.

* * *

_Sorry it's been so long folks. Soon, I think we will earn our M rating. Not the next chapter. Maybe the one after that. Or after that. :)_

_What do you think so far? Believeable?_


	8. Chapter 8

_So, you have to take so much of the medical stuff in this chapter on faith. Suspend your disbelief. I apologize if this scenario seems completely unfeasible, but it was the most feasible possibility in my brain. _

_Oh, and seeing as how I pull directly from the movie in this chapter, obligatory statement: Not mine, don't own it, and make no money.  
_

**Chapter 8**

**

* * *

**

"There's no tree waiting for me. All I want, all I deserve is at the end of that tunnel."

"That's not true."

And she pressed her lips to his. He felt her through the mask, her breath heating him. His hands gripped her waist, and V felt the curve of her, and it stopped his heart. He wished he could do it, run away. But V the symbol knew that what had begun could not be stopped. That he owed it to this world to follow through on what he had promised.

He looked in to her large, beautiful, open eyes and felt his love for her in every nerve of his body. She was worth it, this death waiting for him, if only to give her a chance at true freedom. So his eyes caressed her behind his mask, and he knew it was time.

"I can't." escaped his mouth, and he turned away. He moved quickly, to make sure he didn't waver. His feet kept him moving forward, so he could see the last of his plot through to the very end.

* * *

Evey felt her breath escape her, and only then realized she had stopped breathing. He was gone. She stumbled back, feeling a mixture of numbness and agony, the pain of goodbye ripping through her. He was gone, and she didn't know if he would come back at all, let alone if he would survive. She closed her eyes, feeling the coolness of her lips where she had kissed him. That mask, that barrier to him, that smile ever present as she asked him to stay. I can't. And he couldn't, but she couldn't stop her self from wanting it anyway. She leaned in the doorway to the Shadow Gallery, looking into the tunnel, and seeing only his face.

A clock chimed, and she leaned into the room just inside, looking for the time. She found what she guessed was his "Mud Room." Tools and shovels lay in racks against the far wall. In front of her lay hooks with hats, masks, and his customary cloaks hanging. His boots lay below, lined neatly against the wall. On the other side showed TV screens, lit green with night vision, showing parts of the tunnel. Pots of roses were everywhere, giving the room a romance, red contrasting with the green lights of the monitors. In the corner stood a grandfather clock, showing it to be 11pm. An hour to go. An hour until she must make a choice whether of not to pull that lever.

Evey knew there was no choice. She knew what she would do. She would not have his work and his sacrifice be in vain. She would do it without hesitation.

Still just in the doorway, she chose to go further down the hall, to a door she had seen at the bottom of the steps that lead to the main floor of the Gallery. She knew that door. She had opened it once and ascended the steps, not knowing where she was going, only following the light. She saw a light switch on the wall, and flipped it. She opened the door, and found herself in a cold, concrete hallway. This was the prison, her place of torture, and she took a moment to feel a stab of hatred. She didn't direct it at V anymore, she just felt it. She knew it all was an accurate impression of what Gordon must have gone through. She smiled at the memory of his face, and knew she would think of him when she set that train in motion. She would do it for him, for her family, for V and Valerie, and she would do it gladly. He truly had given her a gift.

To her left stood the dummy, Victor, dressed as a guard and hooked to the wall. She touched him lightly, and left the room. It was time to wait.

* * *

"V! Oh we have to stop your bleeding."

"Oh please don't, I'm finished, and glad of it."

"Don't say that."

"I told you only truth. For twenty years I sought only this day, nothing else existed. Until I saw you, and everything changed. I fell in love with you, Evey. Like I had no longer believed I could."

"I don't want you to die."

"That's the most beautiful thing you could have given me."

"V!" she felt his name pour out of her, released like her tears, desperate. "V!" And she buried her head in his chest and sobbed for the man she loved.

As she cried her tears out, she felt his torso hitch, a shallow breath sucked in, another pushed out, labored and slow. But he did not respond to her cries. She looked around, at a loss for what to do. Wiping her tears from her eyes, irritated at their distortion of her vision. She looked back at him, and made up her mind. Fuck his noble death. She had work to do.

Her feet had never carried her faster. She didn't feel the stone beneath her soles, of register the doors she passed, or the Gallery as she flew through it. In to his training room, and through that lay the essential, beautiful, wonderful door leading to his infirmary. She didn't know a whole lot, she was at best a barely trained nurses aid, but she had a little experience, and it was all they had.

Arms full, heart pounding, it felt like magic how fast she found herself at his side. She showed no hesitation when she took the scissors to his tunic, the blade zipping through the fabric. Looking at his torso, yes she saw the burns, his flesh red and rippling in texture. But it barely registered, she knew this was how it would be, she had seen his hands. She looked quickly for wounds to his chest and stomach, and found two shots to his side, one in his upper chest, and one in a shoulder. She prayed no organs had been hit. He had spoken to her, so his lungs must be intact.

More cutting revealed his arms, which were much worse. That surprised her, and told her he must have been wearing something that protected his chest. A stab of fear hit her, worried he may have been shot in the groin, or an artery pierced in his leg. She quickly cut him free, and found only one shot in his thigh, but it was through the side, and had exited.

Finally, she looked at his head. This was the only moment she pulled back. She could not remove that mask. She couldn't. Not only did she know he didn't want her to, (a small voice told her he probably felt the same about the rest of him, so what did it matter?) but it felt so WRONG. If ever she was to see beneath it, it had to be his hands that removed it, not hers. But she could not ignore that his wig could be obscuring a shot to the head. She felt the mask, metal. She, safe to say he had no serious wounds beneath it, but not about the rest of what was hidden. Feeling panic, she acted. His wig came off revealing more of the same mottled skin, but no wounds were found.

Sighing, she started. Checking for exit wounds, starting the I.V. to give him blood, cleaning wounds, and cauterizing everything that didn't have a bullet lodged in it. She didn't have the time to stitch him up, and a mere bandage wasn't good enough because all she needed was to keep his blood IN him. One of the wounds in his side had exited, as had the one in his shoulder. As fast as she could, she dug out the bullet from his other side wound and from his upper chest, praying her clumsy help didn't hurt anything vital.

She checked his breathing, and it was the same, grating out of him slowly, but still happening. She checked his pulse and found his heart slow but steady. An alarm sounded, and it broke her concentration. Hesitating, but needing to know, she found its source in the mud room, where she was able to shut it off by the TV screens. Looking at movement in one, her heart stopped. It was one of the detectives, moving through the tunnels.

On auto pilot, the first this she thought was to hide V. She felt every muscle in her tiny frame strained against his dead weight, but adrenaline gave her strength, and she managed to drag him in to the hallway. Looking at the clock, she realized she had about 10 minutes before it was midnight. She hoped that the detective was a few minutes away, but had no way to gauge.

What was important? V's safety and getting the train off were the only things that mattered. She couldn't care for V if she had London descending down on them, because some detective thought he was still alive, and knew where they were. He needed to think V was dead. As she thought, she continued to clear the tunnel platform of evidence, and as she did, she looked up in to the train.

And in that moment, she saw it. A way to show his death. She smiled a little. How appropriate, a Viking funeral. She knew she was running on empty, but she kept on running, back to that place of her imprisonment. Having no time to spare, she ripped the dummy off the wall, feeling her shoulders protest. As she ran back, she grabbed his cloak, boots, gloves, wig and mask from where they rested in the mud room. She was surprised at her strength, hauling it all to the train, but she worked as quickly as she could, fearing for V. When her effigy was laid out, she moved back to the screens, wondering how much time she had. She saw V's map of where the cameras were located for the first time, and figured she had only a few minutes before he was upon them.

In the hallway, she quickly and tightly wrapped V arms in gauze, hoping it would tide him over for a few minutes, until she could devote her time back to him. She was extremely thankful she had managed to deal with all the wounds in his torso. Finally, a quick patch to his leg, a check to his blood supply, and a check on his breathing, left her feeling as prepared as she could be under the circumstances. She looked in to the TV screens again to find the detective due any minute. Looking below, she noticed the roses. She smiled and quickly grabbled the heads of roses, and a few with stems, to set the stage.

Evey threw her shoulders back, calmed her breathing, and set out to give a performance, even though she was exhausted and trembling. She hoped V would be proud.

* * *

_A/N: I hope that was believable. And sorry for any errors, I have no beta, and I find that when I have the inspiration to write, I don't have the patience after to wait and edit the next day. I edit for a little bit, and then impulsively post. ;) Fun times. My goal is to get this done by Christmas, but we still have a ways to go. I'll do my best._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**

* * *

**

Days passed like minutes, and Evey's world narrowed to V's bedside. His breathing had deepened, and it seemed as if he was sleeping, but he didn't stir. She had replaced the metal mask with a lighter one, her eyes squeezed shut while she fumbled at the clasps, but she wanted him to be more comfortable.

She had found his bedroom, a room that had usually been locked to her, and set him up in his bed with and IV. Hours, she lay next to him reading, thinking. Sometimes she would run her fingers over his hand, the only part of him he had willingly shown her, and she would entwine her fingers with his.

Evey learned the worst of V's burns were on the back of his head, arms, torso, and on the front of his calves. He was burned all over, but it was lighter on the front of him, like he had curled in to a ball to protect himself. As she held his hand in hers, feeling the ridges and bumps, the texture of his flesh, she wondered at the agony he must have felt. The pain of the burn.

The mirror to his vanity was broken, just the few bits of it that were wedged in to the frame remained. The surface in front of the mirror was cleaned, so she guessed it wasn't a new break. She thought about the broken shards for awhile, her eyes tracing the edges and points, and wondered. The only conclusion she made was that he must not have replaced it because he didn't expect to need it. Or maybe to remind him of something. It was a mystery that kept her mind busy.

In the rare moments when the waiting go to be too much, she would wander the Shadow Gallery, but it seemed so empty it hurt. V wasn't there, his calm intensity missing, and she found the color had left the rooms. She lingered in the kitchen, cooking little for herself, but restlessly going through the cookbooks, marking recipes she wanted to share with him.

Invariably, she missed even his breathing to remind her that he wasn't gone, and wandered back to him, slipping across the duvet next to him, where she would entwine her hand with his, and wait.

* * *

It was like the feeling of being so deeply asleep, that the idea of waking was too much. It wasn't a bad feeling, there was a peace to it, a sluggish reawakening of self, but V felt no rush to wake. He lingered in the empty unconsciousness, knowing that if he moved he would hurt, but being confused how that was possible. He was dead. Why would it hurt? How could he even be aware of his body? Wasn't he done hurting?

When he could no longer linger, when he became aware of lying somewhere, body aching, he realized he had lived. And when he slowly pealed his eyelids apart, the screen of his mask and the sight of his room greeted him. He remained absolutely still, assessing what he could. He was wearing his mask, but not much else, lying in his bed. He felt warmth in his hand, felt a hand wrapped in his fingers, and dared to think her name. _Evey._ V quietly turned his head, and saw.

She was asleep, her forehead pinched in tension or worry, but snuggled in to his pillow, mouth slightly open, and facing him. Her arm was extended, hand twined in his, one leg out and touching him through the sheet that was draped over his body.

The pain that came with consciousness was creeping up on V, but he ignored it as much as he could. A billion things raced through his pain-sharpened brain, memories and conjectures. Not the least of which was with what he thought was his dying breath, telling this creature he loved her. Next was realizing just how much of his skin she had seen, and a pondering thought about how she could stand to have her hand in his.

Predominately, how was he alive? His chemical altered body could handle more than most, but those were some serious wounds. Left on his own, he wouldn't have made it. But the hand in his was a testament to the fact that he had not been left alone, and that Evey must have tried her best to treat him.

Confusion froze V. Should he try to slip away? Should he wake her and let her continue to help? Or should he try to wake her and take care of himself? What about the mask? He was confused about what do to with this graceful woman in his bed, who knew more of him than any person in existence.

What next? The mask on his face was useless, could never been seen outside again, and he had no purpose. For this first time, a future stretched out before V, and he had no idea where to begin.

His eyes bored in to Evey's face, her deep breathing soothing him, her presence taking the edge out of his worry. Leaving wasn't an option. She was here, and when she chose to leave, he would let her. But he would not be the one to make that choice. He had nothing else.

He couldn't stand the idea of her seeing his face, but he wanted to see her. Without thought, his other hand reached for the eye screens, pressing through, removing them. He hadn't come to any conclusions, his path ahead still confusing, but he wanted to see her eyes.

V squeezed her hand.

* * *

When Evey awoke, it was to a pressure in her fingers. Surprise made her eyes flicker open quickly. A familiar false grin greeted her, V's head turned toward her.

Brilliant blue eyes locked with hers and stared back.

Evey's breath caught, and a grin stretched across her face.

* * *

_A/N: Much more to come. Sorry I'm a slow poke. ;)_

_Your comments and favs kept this story in my brain these past few months, and I appreciate it. We are in uncharted territory, no more movie to guide, so I find I'm spending a lot of time just choosing what comes next. I have a lot in my head that I've pictured from day one, but some of it still needs fleshing out._

_Soon. I promise, soon._


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

Hands entwined, they talked. Evey couldn't avert her eyes, she was transfixed, mesmerized by his stare.

"How long…?" His smooth voice was rough and deep.

"Four days."

"And the train?"

Still staring deeply in to his eyes, she smiled and said, "Blown to bits."

A sigh escaped him, followed by a soft chuckle. At this he seemed to curl in to himself, head turning away from her, a hiss escaping through his teeth.

Desperate to make eye contact again, Evey moved closer and propped herself on an arm next to him, looking down in to his face. His eyes were screwed shut, and his breathing was shallow.

She frowned, "Is it pain?"

His eyes opened, their gazes locking again, and she suddenly realized just how close she was to him. He looked at her hard, but she could read nothing in his gaze, moments ticking by. "Yes. " was all he said.

"Your last dose must have worn off." She was up, needle retrieved from the vanity before she had finished speaking. As she injected in to his IV, his body relaxed.

"Evey…"

She crawled back in to bed with him, scooting close and looking down in to his face. "Yes, V?"

"I'm glad you're here." His voice was soft, his eyes half lidded, but his gaze never wavered from her. She entwined their hands again, and watched him slowly lose the battle with sleep. As he sank in to unconsciousness, his eyes closing against his will, she brushed a kiss across the warm enamel of his cheek.

* * *

No more than a day or so later, V was getting impatient. He wasn't sleeping as much, body restless but still aching and slow. He was unsure about how to deal with the intimacies of infirmary. She had to help him everywhere, to do everything, and it was making him uncomfortable. He knew she must have dealt with him far more intimately while he was unconscious, but he just wanted to function on his own.

So he was currently hobbling his way to his bathroom, clutching at the walls, stubbornly trying to do it on his own. He was proud of how well he did actually. As much as he hated the circumstances that lead to his mutated body, at this point he acknowledged it, because it wouldn't be possible for a normal man to do this.

Finding his way back out and into his wardrobe, he covered himself fully for the first time since the 5th. He did not seek out his more form fitting clothes, just some loose slacks he had never worn in front of anyone, and a flowing shirt he usually wore under a doublet. A wig was the last addition, choosing to leave his hands, neck and feet bare. It was far less skin than what she had seen, but it still felt like a huge exposure.

Standing in the doorway to his room, he heard Evey approach. She swept in from the door to the gallery, and stopped when he was not visible in the bed. V straightened his posture as much as he could, and when her eyes swept to him, he tried not to flinch at the shock in them.

Her face schooled in to a neutral expression, and she set the tray of food she was carrying down. When she looked at him again, he saw her mouth curl up a little at the corner. "So, how did that go for you?"

Remaining still, knowing he would stumble if he moved, he replied, "Fine. Okay. Bloody floor is cold, but it's nice to move, if it is a little fumbling."

She moved toward him, and he tried not to watch the patch of smooth stomach that was visible above her trousers. She reached a hand to the strands of his wig, fingers playing with the hair. She smiled at him, put her arm around his torso, and helped him move to the chair next to the bed.

She disappeared for a second, reappearing with a pair of socks. As she knelt down, he noticed her hair was a little longer. When she began rolling the sock on to his foot he asked, "Are you growing your hair out?" He gently ran two fingers through her inch long hair, pulling away when she looked up.

"I hadn't decided. There is no reason for the disguise any more, but there was something I liked in it as well. But I also missed my hair." As she rolled the other sock on, her fingers lingered a moment on his ankle, before she sat back on her calves and looked at him.

A pause stretched between them, and V felt the enormity of what he was doing, what he wanted, from her. It was so much to ask, too much, to expect her to love a man so broken and scarred. To say something, anything, he said what had been lurking in his thoughts.

"I miss your hair. I always… regretted removing it." He saw her shoulders draw in, her head glance down at the reminder of his torture. But when she looked back at him he couldn't see any accusation in her face. She looked at him intently, V still and breathless as the intensity made his heart ache for her, and after a moment her face relaxed, a smile on her lips. She leaned forward, her hands coming to rest on the tops of his thighs, and she said, "Then it's settled, it's time to grow it out. It is a new world out there, time to leave the past behind." She gripped his thighs, V felt almost faint, and pushed herself to standing. Still standing so close, legs against his knees, she leaned over him. The scent of gardenia, a smell that made V's heart pound, lingered around her as she retrieved they tray of food. She stepped back slowly, she met his eyes and said, "I'll just go warm this up again."

V closed his eyes as he drew deep breaths, and didn't know what to think or what to hope for. Should he be selfish and try and keep her near? Or should he encourage her to leave, to go find someone less tainted? How could she stand to touch him?

As he looked at his hands, mottled and red, he remembered all the times he had felt her take his hand in hers. She never flinched.

Waiting for her, V found no answers. He simply felt the churning emotion in his chest, and remembered the smell of gardenias.

* * *

_lemons ahoy!_


	11. Chapter 11

_AN: If you aren't interested in lemons, don't read this chapter._

**Chapter 11**

* * *

Evey knew what she wanted. Now that he was up and moving, functioning on his own, she could look at it objectively. Or at least as objectively as she could with a racing heart, a nervous stomach and her mind roiling in emotion when he was near. He had never been more graceful, the lines of him revealed to her. His voice, oh _his voice_, was like velvet, honey, sex and satin. It's depth, it's vibration rolled through her when he spoke.

She was falling fast.

The curve of his lower back, the strength in his thighs, the poise in his stance, strong and sure. She had known that he was handsome, but now she had to deal with a more revealed V. His skin was what it was, the burns didn't arouse her, but she was drawn to the sight of him. It was the vulnerability of its visibility. It was the knowledge of sensitivity, that she could touch him and he could feel it.

Evey stretched her neck, trying to distract herself from her arousal.

There was more to it, it wasn't completely physical. She had been drawn to him since the moment she had met him. He was gentlemanly, stubborn, passionate, playful, intelligent and romantic. He was intrinsically masculine, but also gentle.

She loved it all. She felt buoyed by that knowledge; that the man she loved was here, he was alive, and she felt as if she walked on air. She felt weightless. And he had said he loved her. Granted, he may have been dying, but she knew that he was currently getting as worked up as she was.

She was doing her best to make sure of it.

* * *

V knew he was in the middle of a dance he didn't know the steps to. She floated around him, one moment normal, the next looking at him with a fire in her gaze. Little touches, the grazing of legs, and lingering fingers, had wound him tight.

The worst of it was her neck. In the past, her hair had covered that part of her most of the time. Now that her hair was so short, he had an uninterrupted view of the shape of her. That gentle sloping curve from the base of her head, rolling down until it peaked at her shoulders and then disappeared beneath her dress. The sharp, graceful line of her jaw and the line that ended at her collar bone. He had never seen anything more beautiful.

They were in the kitchen, for the first time resuming their favorite past time of cooking. She pulled him down next to her at the table, bending her head toward him, and showing him what she had looked up while she waited for him to wake up. Their resources were limited, but they talked over what alterations they could make.

Her brow furrowed in concentration, her strong, straight eyebrows accentuating her dark eyes as she talked with him, V felt she was perfect. She balanced him. When he was unyielding, she was fluid. When he was shy, she pulled him toward her. V didn't know how to cope with being this undone, this in need, and this much in love with someone. He felt lost, and yet simultaneously found. She had found him. He had always been "V the symbol". She knew "V the man," and she was the only person who ever had. And still she had never seen his face.

Still thinking, he watched her run her hands through her hair. There wasn't much to run through, so her fingers seemed to caress the shape of her, and when her hand lingered at the point where her jaw met her ear, V had to mentally shake himself.

And then she stretched her neck.

Suddenly, it was too much. He was too tense, too confused, too unsure of himself to continue. Standing abruptly, without looking at her he said "Excuse me." and quickly escaped in to the bowels of the Shadow Gallery.

He found himself on the train platform, sitting on the bench she had waited on, and dissolved in to remembering. He remembered the look on her face when she had realized he meant to go to his death. He remembered the sight of her leaning in to kiss his mask, and the feel of her warm breath mingling with his own. He wondered what it would be like to feel her lips on his.

V sat, and tried to decide if he could ever allow that to happen.

* * *

Evey found him there, not too much later. He was a still as a statue, not acknowledging if he had seen her. She padded to him on bare feet, looking down in to the mask that she both loved and longed to remove. An indefinite amount of time passed, his blue eyes locked with her brown. She made a decision.

Taking one step back, her hands reached for the tie at the side of her dress. It was a wrap, and as the tie came apart, she unwrapped each side and let the dress fall off her shoulders. She didn't often wear a bra, and today had been no exception, so she stood before him wearing only plain black knickers. Heart pounding, eyes still caught in his gaze as he watched her, she hooked her thumbs in to her waistband and revealed the last of herself to him.

She took the step forward, and his gaze broke from her eyes, looking at her body as she came to him. Only when she gripped his shoulders as she straddled his lap did she notice he wasn't breathing.

Face to face, eyes locked together again, she spoke. "I want to make something clear V. I have no expectations. That mask never has to come off, for the rest of our days. I want what ever you are willing to give. You once told me that you were not the face beneath the mask, that that face wasn't you. I get it, I'm okay, because I know you. I see who you are. And I love you."

She paused, wanting him to process what she had said. She simply held his gaze, enraptured by the blue eyes showing such emotion, and she gently smiled at him, wearing her heart in her eyes. After a moment, her smile grew, and she bent her mouth to his ear.

"My only regret is not feeling your lips against my skin." She felt him shiver slightly as her breath found its way to his flesh. "But I can live with your hands."

At this she gently gripped his hands in hers, pressing one in to curve of her waist, bringing the other to the base of her neck. She threw her head back and pressed down, feeling his fingers on her skin. She heard his intake of breath, and it was her turn to shiver.

Her hands left his and traveled to his shoulders, feeling the strength in him, and she lightly ghosted her hands down his biceps. When one hand slipped up to his neck, running along the edge of his shirt, she brought her fingers to the first button of his collar, and slipped it free.

His hands seemed to snap to life, both tightening against her. His fingers ran up and down the column of her throat, lingering and exploring. When it trailed lower over her sternum, she looked at him. Both of their chests were heaving with deep breaths as the hand at her waist moved over her skin to trace the seam of her breast.

She looked in to his face, the smiling visage of Guy Fawkes a strange counterpoint for the eyes boring in to hers. He was looking at her more intensely than she had ever seen, eyes narrowed but burning as his hands both moved to the edge of her breasts. When his open palms lightly grazed the tips of her, she gasped and pressed her torso forward and in to him.

Suddenly, they were both desperate, hands moving, his running up her spine and over the tops of her thighs as she finally finished unbuttoning him and ran her hands over the muscles of his torso. He was clutching her to him, her pelvis mashing with his. She buried her face in to his neck, kissing along the flesh of his jaw below the mask.

Time passed strangely, both quickly and slowly, and they breathed as one, hearts pounding, bodies and hands crushing together, and Evey was in heaven. Though when her fingers moved to the waist of his trousers, time seemed to stop as he gripped her wrists and pulled her hands away.

Panting, she stared in to his eyes, wondering what had gone wrong. He simply held her there, arms outstretched, body trembling, and he closed his eyes at the question in hers. After a moment, he brought her hands down to their laps, cradling them in his. He stared down at their hands, and Evey began to panic. What was going on?

When his hands disentangled from hers and moved to the side of his mask, her breath caught. He didn't look at her, eyes firmly shut as he released the buckles. Finally, one open palm gripped the front of it, and with a trembling breath escaping him, he removed the mask from his face.

His eyes remained closed, and she suspected he didn't want to know her initial reaction. She looked her fill, nothing really surprising her. She knew what his flesh looked like, and this was merely a continuation. His nose, cheeks, chin and forehead were the same mottled red as his hands, deeply burned. His lips were remarkably normal and full, and she wondered if he had pressed them together when he held his breath in the fire. His nostrils were distorted but his nose was almost aristocratic, and the cheekbones gracefully ran below the distorted skin.

When he opened his eyes, her world seemed to fall away, and she was lost in the sea of her love for him. He smiled at her, seeing the love in her eyes, and when he did, she discovered he was beautiful.

She looked back at his lips, and knew she needed to feel them, to finally connect with him. She leaned in and kissed him, feathering kisses at first, but they soon deepened. Arms wrapped around each other, and all they knew was their press of their mouths and bodies, quickly back to their fever pitch.

His hands started moving up and down her thighs, each pass moving more inward, and Evey moaned when he finally trailed a finger along the seam of her opening. She stopped breathing when his finger quested through her wetness, pressing in, delving inside. When he moved it in and out once, their lips still locked, she cried out in to his mouth.

Aggressive, Evey quickly undid the fastenings of his trousers, hands delving herself, and she wrapped her hand around his hardness. Shifting his pants, she moved him out, his erection touching the curls of her mound, and Evey moved. Lifting slightly, she guided him in, and sank on to his thickness, feeling herself stretching to accommodate him.

She rocked, swelled, and moved over him. His deep voice cried out, her name escaping his lips, hands clutching her arse, pulling her down on to him. She looked up, closed her eyes, and lost herself to the push and pull of their bodies.

His lips moved along her shoulders, and her hands clutched at him. Her body was singing, igniting, and electricity tingled down her spine. He was bucking up in to her, breaths gasping from his body, and when their flesh crashed together, she cried his name. She felt every bit of him, felt the perfect pressure when their hips came together, and she felt the sensation build and build with every burial of his length within her.

When their crescendo hit, her body shattering, his voice reverberating through her as they cried, their voices echoing down the tunnel of the London underground, she clutched him tightly and brushed kisses across the skin of his face.

* * *

_Erm, so, yea. I could really use a review after that one. I'm a wee bit nervous. You know, a story I've been working on for almost a year, and this is only the 2nd lemon I have ever written._

_But, honestly, I think I need a lemon **grove **in this story. ;)_


	12. Chapter 12

End of Story Disclaimer: I own nothing. Seriously. I have so much debt I barely own myself.

**Chapter 12**

* * *

When she had slipped the dress from her shoulders, he had stopped breathing. When she had confessed her love and acceptance, he felt his heart pound. And then that quip about his lips on her skin, followed by the moment he actually touched his hands to her bare flesh, it had lit him on fire. He knew this sensation; if you had taken the intensity of being burnt and made it ecstasy, it would have been what he was feeling. He lost himself in her, and never wanted to surface.

But he did surface, and with blinding quickness when she moved for his trousers. This was _happening_. He was going to sleep with Evey, enter the woman he loved, and he hadn't even shown her his face. It wasn't him, it was just flesh, but this was about intimacy. This was about trust. If he could trust her enough for _sex_, he had damn well better trust her enough to not run away from the sight of his face.

Heart pounding for a different reason, he raised his hands to the buckles, and took away his last barrier. He was hers now, to uplift or to destroy, and he was glad to be alive. He wanted to belong to her.

When he finally had the nerve to open his eyelids, the love in her eyes tore away all of his fears. He fell harder in love with her, even though he didn't know how that was possible. It was as if he could feel that love in his marrow.

The touch of her lips was bliss, her hands leaving trails of desperate sensation behind them, and he needed more. He touched her, entered her with his hands and her cries only fed his passion. He was new at this, essentially a virgin, but he didn't hesitate. There was no awkwardness, they moved as if they had always been intimate.

When finally, finally, he sank within her, he knew every feeling he had ever felt had been eclipsed. He knew the orgasm would shatter him, but that first penetration, that first moment of connection, heat and pressure was all encompassing. His brain rewired in that moment, knowing this feeling would be his definition of heaven.

Watching her, seeing this woman writhe and moan and abandon herself to pleasure was perfection. She controlled everything, the push and pull, thrust and check and hitch of hips was hers. He gripped her, met her, kissed her and flowed along in the river of pleasure she created.

As he watched her face contort in orgasm, he exploded and imploded; body wildly thrusting, and the pleasure seemed to roll on and on.

When he came down from that height, he clutched her to him. He caressed her flesh, hands smoothing up and down her back, glorying in the intimacy. As time when on and endorphins cooled, he lost a little of his nerve. This was new for him, and it was a little abrupt, for all they had been building to it since they had met. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, simultaneously protecting his face and nuzzling her flesh. It helped.

She stroked him back, ghosting her hands up and down him as well. She broke the silence that had not quite become awkward. "Oh V, you are beautiful."

He pulled back to look her in the eyes, and he found her flushed face. Her lips were partly opened and her eyes took him in in turn, they were soft, contented, and she looked at him with love.

He didn't know what the future held. All his planning, all his thoughts had been centered on the 5th, and his revolution. He had planned his death, dying alone and faceless in order to finally cut the hearts from those with power. Power gained from the deaths of innocents. He would gladly have died. But as he gasped that last breath, he wasn't alone. He hadn't planned on that. He could never have planned on _her_.

And as they trembled together in that deep cavern below the streets of London, he found that he loved _not_ knowing. His hands stroked along the smooth flesh of her back, and she sighed at his touch, making them both aware of his flesh still within her. He had never planned on being here, on loving her and being loved, on living.

She stretched into his touch like a cat, his fingers dancing across her skin, rousing her from their contented stupor. She twisted her hips slightly, feeling him slip out of her, and she gave a sigh of disappointment. Still, he watched her closely as he felt her, fingers questing over every inch, mapping her body. Her sides were especially sensitive, and he loved the dip of her waist, and she gasped as he explored her curves.

"Evey." The word reverberated through them both; even he was not unaffected, and he acknowledged that his voice was his one true beauty, unmarred by flame. "Evey, I…" She looked at him intensely, passion burning in her eyes, and it was a fire he would gladly be consumed by. "I love you." He felt his voice rumble through his chest, radiating outwards, filling them both.

She leaned forward, and touched her lips to his. He was a fool to fear this. He vowed then to try and not hide himself from her, to keep the mask off in her presence, just so he could always be able to touch his lips to hers. The soft pads of their mouths met, caressed, and moved together. She took the lead, as always, and deepened the kiss with her tongue. He gladly followed.

They kissed and kissed, lost to the world. Still, he noticed when her flesh pebbled with goose bumps, cold from the chill of the tunnel. Even as lost to passion as he was, erection raging between them, he knew he needed to move them. She was still on his lap, and as he scooted forward, and wrapped her legs around his waist. Arms supporting her, he lifted her, and carried her up to the warmth of the Shadow Gallery.

Always the instigator, still kissing him, Evey reached one hand between them, and moved his length in to place, slipping his tip within her. Gasping, V crushed them to the nearest wall, and lost himself within her. She cried out in joy in to his ear.

In the darkness far below them, his mask lay cold and forgotten.

* * *

Evey couldn't stop her grin. She almost giggled in her haste, slipping on her boots. Grabbing her jacket, she rushed from her room to find him.

He was finishing the last of his mask, smoothing the edge of the prosthetic skin in to his face with makeup. She bounced on her toes behind him, eager and breathless, smile stretched across her face. A matching smile grew on his as he watched her in the mirror, and he grew just as impatient. He stood swiftly, retrieved a hat from its stand, and placed it on the short dark brown wig. Evey loved how his normal clothes showed off the graceful form of his body. His cloak had always covered it.

Looking in to his eyes, a fairly normal looking man looked back. The hat shadowed his face, helping with illusion. She looked at him, and wished he didn't have to wear any mask ever again, even one like this. She promised herself to kiss every inch of his face later when he removed it.

Grasping his hand, grinning fit to burst, she pulled him along, up and out in to the streets of London. When they breathed the cool air of London in winter, he paused, and pulled her back against him. Arms wrapping around her, still hidden in the shadows, he pressed his lips to the neck that had caused him to come so undone. Bringing his lips to her ear he whispered, "Thank you."

She twisted in his arms, looking at him. Tears coming to shimmer in her eyes, she felt the enormity of this moment, it stretched beyond her, and she felt as if she spoke with thousands of voices as she said, "No, V. Thank you."

The intensity of the moment lurked within her, but as she blinked away her tears, she stored it within her to treasure. Grin once again stretching across her face, she took his gloved hand in hers. Giddy, excited, she led him in to the streets, to a town still in celebration, to a London rejoicing at its freedom, to an England entering a golden age. Hands entwined, pressed up against his warmth, Evey couldn't wait to share it with him.

* * *

**The End.**

AN: Wow. It took me over a year, but it's complete. If you have ever reviewed or favorited this, know that you kept me going. Thank you. Every time my phone chirped with an email, I remembered what I had begun, and needed to finish. I sometimes find inspiration grows in me, and that's why this last chapter took so long. I started it, and then restarted it. And then got halfway though and stopped.

I plan on a few offshoot PWPs from this. So, it's over, but it's not OVER over over. ;)

Please, PLEASE REVIEW. Especially now that it's done. Pretty pretty please? Cherry on top and everything?


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